Chapter 1
Kayla
The clubhouse practically vibrates with thumping bass as we pull into the crowded parking lot.
Roman’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk toward the entrance, his touch both reassuring and possessive.
The familiar knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach — I’m not usually a coward, but coming here always makes me feel like prey walking into a den of wolves.
Maybe if Roman brought me to the clubhouse more often, the feeling would fade.
But maybe not. Maybe I am just prey walking into a den of wolves.
“You okay, Sunshine?” Roman’s voice is close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin as he pulls open the door.
The sound hits me first — music cranked so loud I can feel it reverberating in my chest, layered with shouted conversations, laughter, the crack of pool balls colliding.
The smell comes next: beer, cigarette smoke, leather, sweat, and somewhere beneath it all, the greasy scent of grilled meat.
The clubhouse is packed, bodies pressed together in the main room, spilling out into the adjoining spaces.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing a smile as I scan the crowded room.
Roman’s blue eyes study my face for a moment too long, and I know he sees right through me. But instead of calling me out on my discomfort, he just nods toward the bar. “Let’s get a drink.”
Roman’s arm slides around my waist as he guides me through the crowd.
Several men nod at him or clap him on the shoulder as we pass.
I receive glances too, some curious, some dismissive, a few openly hostile from women who mark me as an outsider despite the ring on my finger and the “property of Viper” patch on my cut.
We make our way to the bar, which is being manned by a heavily tattooed prospect. Roman catches his attention with nothing more than a look.
“Viper,” he acknowledges respectfully. “What can I get you?”
“What’ll you have, Sunshine?” Roman asks, his mouth close to my ear to be heard over the music.
“Just a beer.”
He nods, turning back to the prospect. “Two beers.”
The prospect delivers them with impressive speed, practically tripping over himself to please the club’s VP.
Roman slides one bottle toward me, his eyes already drifting across the room to where Atlas stands holding court beside a pool table, surrounded by a cluster of men.
I follow his gaze, watching Atlas laugh at something one of the brothers said, his large hand coming down to slap the man’s back.
“Go ahead,” I tell him, touching his arm. “I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates, his gaze returning to me. “You sure, Sunshine? I can stay with you.”
The offer is genuine; I can tell. I can also tell he’s really hoping I won’t take him up on it.
“I’m sure,” I say, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”
Relief flashes across his face, quickly replaced by a gentle smile. “I love you,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Find me if you need anything.” And with that, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd as he makes his way toward his brothers.
Taking another drink of my beer, I scan the room looking for a friendly or at least not hostile face.
Food tables line the back wall, loaded with burgers, ribs, and various meat-heavy side dishes.
I don’t even bother checking them out. At the first club barbecue Roman took me to, I’d politely asked if there were any vegetarian options.
The silence that followed was deafening, followed by Atlas’s booming laughter as he asked if I was “one of those tree-huggers.” Roman had laughed too, albeit uncomfortably, before steering me away and quietly suggesting I just eat the potato salad.
I learned quickly that my dietary choices are just one more thing that marks me as someone who doesn’t belong. So now I eat before these gatherings and stick to beer while I’m here.
I could find a corner and hide until Roman’s ready to leave.
I did that last time, nursing a single beer for three hours while scrolling through my phone.
Roman was furious on the ride home, told me these people were his family and I wasn’t even trying to fit in.
The argument that followed was ugly, ending with me sleeping on the couch and him leaving before dawn for a multi-day run with the club.
“It would be nice if his world met me at least halfway,” I mutter into my beer bottle before taking another long swig for courage. There’s no time like the present to make an effort, I suppose.
I push away from the bar, beer in hand, and walk toward a group of old ladies standing near the pool tables.
I recognize most of them — there’s Brittany, who belongs to Reaper, and Avery, who’s been with Hammer for years.
They’re laughing about something as I approach, their conversation halting when they notice me.
“Hi,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “Great party, huh?”
Diesel’s old lady, Shelby, gives me a once-over, her eyes lingering on my floral sundress with obvious disdain. “Sure is.”
An awkward silence follows. I scramble to fill it. “The uh music’s good.” I feel my face heating up even as I say it. Not my finest conversational moment.
Brittany nods but doesn’t speak. Another woman I don’t know whispers something to her companion, and they both smirk.
“So,” I try again, “how’s everyone been?”
“Fine,” one answers curtly.
I attempt to join their conversation for another excruciating few minutes.
Each time I speak, they respond with minimal words before turning slightly away, closing their circle tighter until I’m clearly on the outside.
Eventually, I give up and walk away, their whispers following me like little daggers in my back.
I return to the bar, wondering what it is about this particular group of women that makes them so awful. Maybe it’s something in the water. I make a mental note to stick to beer while I’m here.
“Another?” the prospect asks, nodding at my nearly empty bottle.
“Please.”
As he slides a fresh beer toward me, a familiar face catches my eye across the room.
Glynnis, one of my regular customers at the garden center, is standing near the dartboard.
She comes in at least once a week, always chatty and kind, asking detailed questions about different plants and sharing stories about her garden successes and failures.
“Glynnis!” I call as I approach. “Hi!”
She turns, startled, her eyes widening in recognition. After a moment’s hesitation, she smiles. “Kayla! Hi! What a surprise. We don’t usually see you at club parties.”
“Yeah, I find them to be a little overwhelming, to be honest. Roman asked me to come with him tonight.” I explain, gesturing vaguely toward where Roman stands deep in conversation with Atlas.
“Ah,” she replies with a smile, although something about it seems off. “Well…it’s so good to see you outside of work.”
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to pretend this is a normal conversation and not at all uncomfortable. “So…”
“Was your garden successful this year?” She asks in a rush, tucking a strand of her caramel-colored hair behind her ear. “I’m thinking about expanding mine next spring.”
“They were. I’m always a little sad when the season ends.” I relax a bit, finally feeling slightly more at ease. Plants I know how to talk about. “It’s going to be even better next year. Viper finally finished the raised beds I told you about.”
“That sounds lovely, I wish I could get Carbon to —” Glynnis’s gaze suddenly darts over my shoulder, and the warmth in her face cools several degrees.
“I’m sorry,” she says abruptly. “I just remembered I need to… I have to go.”
Before I can respond, she’s walking away so quickly she’s practically running. I turn, confused, watching as Diesel’s old lady, Shelby, intercepts her. They huddle together, whispering urgently, Glynnis casting nervous glances back in my direction.
What the hell just happened?
I follow Glynnis’s earlier line of sight and feel my stomach drop.
Naomi Wallace is staring directly at me from across the room, her red curls framing her face like flames.
Atlas’s daughter has always made my skin crawl, though I’ve never shared this with Roman.
There’s something predatory in her eyes, something calculating and cold that belies her friendly smiles.
I groan internally as she pushes away from the wall she’s leaning against and walks toward me with deliberate steps. For a brief moment, I consider turning and walking — maybe even running — away. But she’s already closing the distance, and running would only make me look weak.
I force my face into something resembling a smile as she stops in front of me.
“Hi, Naomi,” I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the plant lady!” she announces loudly, drawing the attention of those nearby. “Good to see you finally decided to show up to one of our little get-togethers. We were all beginning to worry you don’t like us.”
She turns to the bartender. “Beer!” she commands, not bothering with please or thank you. While her attention is momentarily diverted, I mutter under my breath, “Plant lady. So clever.”
She whips her head back around; her smile sharp as a knife. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, taking a swig of my beer.
Naomi’s eyes scan me from head to toe, lingering on my sundress with its delicate pattern of daisies. Her own outfit of ripped jeans and a black tank top that reveals an intricate sleeve of tattoos couldn’t be more different from mine.
“Cute dress,” she says, the word ‘cute’ somehow sounding like an insult in her mouth. “Isn’t it a bit…much, though? This isn’t exactly a garden party.”
“Really? I never would have guessed.” Heat creeps up the back of my neck, but I match her stare steadily, refusing to be the one to look away first. She studies me with an expression that’s half amusement, half something else.